seen from Singapore
seen from Spain
seen from Yemen
seen from Spain
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Russia
seen from Türkiye
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Australia
seen from Slovakia
seen from Yemen
seen from Russia
seen from Cyprus
seen from Germany
i am not religious but i have sinned against the universe the divine omniscience of CCTV the divine omnipotence of my own shame
i have this fantasy where my past is erased like the fall crisp & fresh & loveable a new and familiar debt
the only rub i know is the glancing absolution of your hands the split second nobody is watching before red light flickers in the periphery.
they auctioned the gun
with which van gogh killed himself in that field, or that barn - the story is yours already. one hundred and forty thousand. for the pleasure of having a cold gun.
there is a big gaping hole in my stomach that i like to call home it's torn-up and pussy and it will kill me, because i cannot kill it (because the antibiotics get stuck in my throat?)
we are real people. touch my warm, rough skin and i’ll touch yours. play pretend we can feel eachother’s jackrabbiting hearts.
you say you have vertigo; our gravity spun out. but the universe looks on with mild consternation. my fingers on your cheek. your blood under my fingers.
i am all hard edges. you are far too soft with me -
no, don’t stop.
i want to relax in your arms; so badly it wraps around my chest, cuts off my airway, choking around a half-baked admission, a doorstep confession.
we are real people; hold your nerve.
i am beginning to unravel the way my eyes cloud over when you speak to me with That Tone stony-faced & shameless - there, i thought it was subtle. how i curl up on myself like a cellophane fish. an abused child caricature. old ugly hound snarling in the corner i trained myself out of flinching: there is nothing i cannot endure. (uncanny & untrue) would you be proud of me? if i stared down death and laughed? would you be proud of me? or would you pity your lack of daughter first?
who am i when you're not watching? do i want to be beautiful for you? i wish i knew. would i prefer to be straightforwardly tragic? the pretty cherub, drawn up in generic strong arms? i think so. they say it's better to cry in a penthouse. i think it's better to cry in a shallow lover's arms than none at all. so whilst i am young, i have this. you must understand.
#4
This time it will be good. This time she will be enough and she will. Get the text in the morning. And in six weeks she’ll meet his mother, and. They’ll talk regularly on the phone. And she’ll go home in his shirt, his sweats, not her dress. Not carrying her heels and stopping, to vomit. No hand in the hair. Sick on my dress. This time it will be good. This time it will be good. This time the hug will be comfort, won’t leave that twisted burn-scar over her bruised hipbone. This time she’ll be small enough to fit in your arms, to fit into your wardrobe like she was always there. She will stay without coaxing, she will be languid and unselfconcious and good, like the women in the paintings. This time she’ll be precious.This time she’ll be sober and you’ll be. Sobering? This time you’ll wait for me to be ready, and you might even stop when I ask. This time it will be good.
This time it will be good. This time it will be more than a dare. A dare with no audience, still, whispered under the duvet but. This time. It will be something real. This time she will wrap me up in that old blanket and stay. This time she will not take the shot glass from my lips before she kisses me. This time it will be good.
This time it will be good. This time she will be clever enough and slim enough and pretty enough and she will say actually, sweetheart, I’ve been thinking about it and I hope that you know that I love you. And she will wrap her arms around me and. I will cry on her pressed blouse and. It will be good.
